Henry IV, Part I

We’ll fight him tonight.

We can’t do that.

Then you’re giving him the advantage.

Not in the least.

Why do you say that? Doesn’t he have backup coming?

So do we.

His is guaranteed. Ours isn’t.

Nephew, I’m telling you. Don’t start the fighting tonight.

(to HOTSPUR) Don’t, my lord.

You’re giving poor advice, based on fear and cowardice.

Don’t slander me, Douglas. I swear on my life—and I’ll prove it with my life—that if I’m roused to fight through thoughtful, careful consideration, I’m just as unafraid as you, my lord, or any Scotsman alive. In tomorrow’s battle, we’ll see which one of us is afraid.

Fine. Or tonight.

That’s enough.

Tonight, I say.

Come on, we can’t do that. I wonder how—being the great leaders you are—you cannot see the problems we’re facing. My cousin has yet to arrive with his horses, and your Uncle Worcester’s troops only arrived today. Their spirit and their bravery is asleep; their courage is dulled and tamed by the hard journey. They don’t have even a quarter of their usual strength.

The enemy’s horses are tired from the journey as well. The majority of ours are well-rested.

But the King has more men then we do. For God’s sake, nephew, wait until everyone arrives.

I’m here with a generous offer from the King, if you’ll listen to me and treat me with respect.

Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt. I wish to God you were on our side. Many of us think very highly of you, though we begrudge you your honor and reputation, since you fight on the enemy’s side.

And I hope to God I always will, so long as you overstep the bounds of allegiance and duty by standing against the anointed King. But let me get to the point. The King sent me to learn your complaints, and to find out why you are stirring up warfare in a time of peace, and spreading violent dissent throughout his loyal country. If the King has somehow overlooked one of your deserving acts—which, he admits, there are many—he asks you to name your complaints. He’ll meet your demands, with interest, as quickly as possible, and grant an absolute pardon to you and everyone who has followed your mistaken lead.

That’s kind of the King. We know all too well about the promises the King makes, and the ways he keeps his word. My father, my uncle, and I put that crown on his head. And when he had barely twenty-six men supporting him, when no one cared about him, when he was wretched and low, a poor, forsaken criminal trying to sneak home, my father welcomed him. When he swore an oath to God, weeping and speaking passionately, that he had come back to England only to reclaim his father’s title and make peace with King Richard, my father took pity on him, swore to help him and did so. When the country’s most important men saw that Northumberland was on his side, they came to see Henry, and bowed down to him. They met him in towns, cities, villages; they waited for him on bridges, stood in the streets, lay gifts before him, swore their loyalty, pledged the support of their sons, followed him like servants. Soon enough, he began to understand his power. He overstepped the promise he’d made to my father at Ravenspurgh, when his blood was still humble. And then, suddenly, he took it upon himself to reform certain laws and strict decrees that weighed too heavily on the kingdom. He made angry speeches about the abuses we were suffering, and seemed to weep over the country’s problems. And with this face, this mask of righteousness, he won everyone’s hearts. Then he went even further, and cut off the heads of all of Richard’s deputies, who stayed behind to run the country while Richard was waging war in Ireland.

I didn’t come here to listen to this.

Then I’ll get to the point. A little while later, he overthrew King Richard. Soon after that, he killed him. And right after that, he raised taxes on everyone. To make matters worse, he allowed his kinsman Mortimer—who by rights ought to be the king—to be imprisoned in Wales, and remain there without ransom. He tried to use my victories to disgrace me, and tried to trap me with spies. He dismissed my uncle from his royal Council, threw my father out of the royal court, broke promise after promise, and committed crime after crime. In conclusion, he forced us to raise this army for our own safety, and to question his claim on the crown, which we believe is too flimsy to stand.

Should I bring this answer to the King?

No, Sir Walter. We’ll stand down for a while. Go to the King. My uncle will bring him our demands early in the morning, provided that you arrange for a guarantee that he’ll be allowed to return safely. And so, farewell.

I wish you would accept the King’s offer of kindness and love.

Perhaps we will.

I pray to God you do.